


Bloodied Petals (Oikawa Tooru Hanahaki Disease AU)

by lunasparker



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Depressed Oikawa Tooru, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hanahaki Disease
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:33:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25803667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunasparker/pseuds/lunasparker
Summary: ( oikawa tooru x reader )the bloodied petals spillout of their souls in theirfinal moments, whereinthe divinities finally uniteyou and him, to fate's wishes.hanahaki disease auoikawa tooru x readerThe Hanahaki Disease is a fictional disease where the victim of unrequited or one-sided love begins to vomit or cough up the petals and flowers of a flowering plant growing in their lungs, which will eventually grow large enough to render breathing impossible if left untreated.SHORT STORY
Relationships: Oikawa Tooru/Reader
Comments: 1
Kudos: 46





	Bloodied Petals (Oikawa Tooru Hanahaki Disease AU)

**Author's Note:**

> My Wattpad is @KISSKAWA and @parhkers if you want to follow. Enjoy the Hanahaki Disease AU

YOU WERE IN LOVE WITH OIKAWA TOORU.

That was an undisputed fact in your life. To truly understand why it was this way, you would have to explain how you came to fall in love with your best friend, from childhood to now, where the years have escaped you both and it doesn't feel any different. If you could describe your love for him, you would have to say your infatuation began from your wild innocence and attraction to him. You had proved your affection countless times, but your love was unrequited and that made you question if your love was even real. 

But your heart always stirred when he entered the classroom, locked eyes with you and greeted you with a childish grin and smile. Your eyes melted when they stared into his, warm and and affectionate, and so true that you wanted to admire him forever. The curve of his jaw, the softness of his lips, that coupled with your intimacy because you had known him for years, knew him like the back of your hand and you loved that, made you victim to his beauty. The dreams of being within his embrace, being loved, haunted you for years, and despite their false nature, they were sweet like ambrosia, and fuelled your growing infatuation with a boy whom you knew from your youth. 

The first petal is always the worst. Your chest constricts as if vines tangle your rib cage together, and then the wheezing comes as if you're lurching over and over again, as if you are trying to claw out your heart, and the tangy taste of blood lingers in the inside of your mouth like a wolf once devouring it's food. And your tongue recoils from whatever is hiding, lurking, within your throat, and out comes the petal, soft and delicate, perfect in form and mannerism despite your haughty cries and coughs, except it is covered in the most crimson possible. It is dripping with darkness, and who knew a single petal could be so painful to view, as if a constant reminder of your own heartbrokenness. 

The Hanahaki Disease is infamous, and it is everywhere. It happens to everyone, at some point, because humanity's selfish nature only encourages the breaking of hearts, the painful process of yearning for someone you cannot ever have because their heart belongs to someone else while your own is locked in a gilded cage that they only have the key for. Aoba Johsai has had numerous cases, but all kept hidden under the whispers and rumours of the students, where in a society where opinion was what mattered, most students took the easier option of having surgery to quell their petal-related suffering.

The moment the first petal leaves your body, you begin to fall apart. Because that is the true undoing of man, to subject themselves to the pain of heartbreak and the collective suffering over love and all it's stringent concepts. You can hide the Hanahaki disease easily behind a cough or an illness, but it is the unravelling of the human body, and it projects your despair into the world in the form of nature's most beautiful, flowers. It will not stop until your faults are confronted and the suffering is complete. And the human body shrivels under the entanglement of petals, all coated in carmine as if drowning in fine wine.

It disappoints you to know that he doesn't love you back. It made you question yourself, doubt your value and create faults that were never there in the first place. And still, even with this, you find yourself enraptured by his infectious smile and laugh, his doleful eyes and the buzzing feeling you feel when your skin brushes his. You watch him play volleyball and fall in love with him all over again. And it's a cycle of love that cannot ever be returned. 

Despite this, fate is adamant. The Hanahaki Disease is a thorn in fate's plan, it is the curse of humanity that they must bear for their poisoned minds and sins. And you're thankful for fate, because here, in this place, inside the hospital ward, it's just you and him, and you can hear his coughing fits and cries from behind the curtain that separates you two. Two lovers who could have been, were it not for the messy nature of humanity, and how easily they succumb to temptation and lust. 

***

OIKAWA TOORU WAS IN LOVE. BUT NOT WITH YOU.

His heart belonged to a girl he knew in his youth. She was the epitome of everything for him, from her colourful eyes to that warm gracious smile. Little did he know that fate was ever so close in pushing him and another girl together, you. 

He knew firsthand, the deadly consequences of love, what a terrible emotion it is when unrequited. As if your own heart snaps in two and remains broken for years on end. He watched the girl he loved, whose hair he liked to ruffle, whose touch he adored, die before his eyes. She withered away, much like a flower that blooms past springtime, destined to die. He watched her gorge on petals, blood stain those pretty hands, and her heart give way to the terrible thorns that pricked within. Because she loved someone else, and that love blinded her from his, so she never saw her ignorance was causing him harm. 

The hospital is quiet except for the humming of a few heart monitors and the whispers of the wind in the open window. He feels the cycle torture him within: a blooming rose, then wilting, then the thorns that cause the sting of blood, and then the petals that resurface after. His mouth is covered in blood, dressed in it. And with every breath, he feels his lungs give way to yearning and the tears cannot help but slip down his face. A face that rarely knows tears. His mind drifts from thoughts of the girl in his youth elsewhere.

He hears your quiet breathing behind the curtain that separates you two. Your chest rises and then deflates, each time your arteries are punctured by divinity's cruelest thorns, and blood fills your lungs like wine to a glass. Coughing follows, and then the petals, and then the tears. Because it's just so painful, a pain beyond comprehension, a pain only those who wish to die with unrequited love can know. 

He doesn't regret that he didn't choose the surgery. His parents were desperate for that option, but he would rather die and join her in the afterlife than live a life without her. Without, love. 

As you struggle to slumber in the hospital bed, you regret not choosing the surgery. How foolish of you to think the power of love could override your inevitable demise. 

He looks slightly towards the curtain, seeing your faint outline, but unable to recognise it is you, his childhood best friend, his current classmate. And then he looks down to see your bloodied hand laying defeated beneath the curtain. He can't help but look at it because it is so reminding of the girl whom he lost all those years ago, with her own bloodied hands. But now, laying in that bed, seeing a reminder of his loved one was not sweet like rose syrup, but felt bitter like he was facing his losses.

And then, he feels his heart starting to give way, and for a moment, he is terrified. Fear is ever so present in his deteriorating mind. He doesn't want to die. And as if you hear him, you whisper, just loud enough for him to hear, "It's okay." 

The coughing is escalating out of control, and he hates how defiled his hands have become, they look nothing like yours, wherein they drip with crimson as if a painter was finger-painting with elegance. They are blotched and smothered with sticky red, and drip down his palm as he holds them over his mouth. And hurl after hurl after hurl, but no one comes, no once listens, no one except you. 

You hear him crying and coughing and your heartstrings tug even more at his loss and you curse yourself for the stupidity of mankind, for the entanglement or reckless emotions, and for the unrequitedness of love. It wasn't fair that humanity was cursed with the finest flowers to bloom readily in their hearts the moment love came into play. 

You, yourself, are slowly dying like him. Your fingers curl under the pain and your own coughing becomes louder than his. And then, the both of you close your eyes, because staying awake felt too tiresome, and to face the darkness was to step closer to the sweet bliss of death, who could take away their love and suffering, and replace it with abyssal absence and nothing. But when you feel fragile and fractured and torn apart by the vile thorns of a deadly rose, even a void feels more comforting than the aches in your heart. 

When it's over, the nurses arrive to find that their two patients are slumbering, but will never awaken again. Their heart rate monitors have already flatlined, but their hands are entwined, coated in blood from their petal-kissed lips, and they are facing each other yet separated by a curtain. Fate brings them together inside that hospital, just as it had always planned, even if for a short time, because the brevity of life was always addictive and fine. And the bodies are laying on their hospital bed, surrounded by bloodied petals, all of wildly different flowers and colours, as if to arrange themselves into some sort of adorning decor, to lift the two souls into heaven and whisk them away from the woes of humanity and show them the truth behind the devastating Hanahaki Disease.

Bloodied petals never looked so beautiful when they cushioned their bodies, that which drowned in their pain of unrequited love.


End file.
